


to let yourself be seen, even deeply known

by Val_Creative



Series: 28 Days of Femslash February 2019 [20]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adults, Angst, Arya-centric, Canon Related, Dark, F/F, Far Future, Femslash, Femslash February, Femslash February 2019, No Smut, Not Really Character Death, Romantic Friendship, Wights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 13:09:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Eventually all of the realms hear of it — Princess Myrcella Baratheon has survived an attack by Dornish poison.





	to let yourself be seen, even deeply known

**Author's Note:**

> WE ARE GETTING CLOSE TO THE END OF FEMSLASH FEBRUARY. IT MAKES ME KINDA SAD. I had this pairing kind of sneak up on me in the middle of nowhere so HAVE FUN READING. ANY THOUGHTS/COMMENTS APPRECIATED. I got " **Hate** " the official [Femslash February](https://femslashfeb.tumblr.com/post/182336252301/any-world-any-medium-as-long-as-theres-girl) prompt and " **Touch-starved** " for challenge prompt!

 

*

Soon all of the realms hear it — Princess Myrcella Baratheon has survived an attack by Dornish poison.

Arya tries to imagine that cheerful, golden-haired girl from her earlier memories in King's Landing, with her lovely, cream-bright embroidery and pale pink dresses and how she would _beg_ Arya to join her for an impromptu tea-and-cakes feast in the Red Keep, purposely avoiding Cersei's glare, insisting they were to be _friends_ , to be sisters when Joffrey and Santa wed. Nothing ever came of that, of course.

And yet, Arya found herself hating this girl. Someone who would always be the embodiment of purity.

No other child-maiden, young and spirited, had been so gentle. So kindhearted and full of wisdom. There were moments when Arya guessed that even Myrcella's night soil even had a _pleasant_ fragrance to it.

It doesn't seem to fit this woman of twenty-and-two namedays, with her silken, armored sleeves and bodices, dark red and browns and ebony, with her waist-length, golden curls hanging about her thin, pallor of a face as Myrcella calmly presents out a vial of toxic mushroom oil and basiliak's venom and nightshade.

Jaime Lannister has been keeping her in the depths of an empty, mildewing fortress in the North. Away from those who would mean to harm Myrcella or whisk her away on promises of security and marriage and riches.

Arya doubts they would live long enough to _use_ Myrcella. Not with the gleam of a hardened, otherworldy malice in her _dead_ , vibrantly blue eyes. Only those who walk alongside the Stranger and do not embrace them… shall understand what it is to feel no end to their journey, Jon warns her. Feel _nothing_.

She cannot say what is true, when Myrcella does not complain at a wound or when she flees from torches.

But Arya cannot hate this wretched thing, profaned and mysterious with shadowy intentions. She's only twenty and has never felt a _longing_ such a this — to have Myrcella's ice-cold fingers on hers.

Myrcella survived.

But only so.

*

 


End file.
